Mel lifted her arms in the voluminous fabric and enveloped her in a hug.
Blanche smiled, but her head was pounding. Make this stop.
This Sal business added one more raw nerve to an already frayed bundle. And she didn’t know what to tell Liza, who was probably out of her mind. Or, hopefully, passed out with an empty whiskey bottle.
She was numb, but she kept searching the faces, walking around aimlessly. The grieved expressions changed everything. No one was happy. Misery united them. Officer Buck was sitting in his police car with his motor humming, one foot on the ground. She thought of attacking him for news, especially for the whereabouts of the chief.
But then she stopped.
Is it true what they say? The perpetrator hangs around the scene of the crime? Or returns to it?
Blanche’s gaze shifted over the crowd. She knew just about everyone in that parking lot. But she did not see the small woman hiding behind the kiosk. If she had, she would have been startled. The dark eyes shone in Blanche’s direction. Then the face, oval and smooth as a river stone, turned away from Blanche toward a stranger standing next to a white van. The woman’s mouth tightened; her fists clenched. She disappeared.
Seven —
Snake in the Van
A cold wave swept over Blanche, even as she sweat in the glaring heat. It was a strange disassociation, like she was untethered and floating. The whiff of a ghost brushed past. When she looked around, she was alone.
She searched the faces again. Ernie at the IGA, a couple of waiters, Buzz, the manager at the bait and tackle. All long-time residents. Dwayne from the 307 Pine Deli and Wendy from Hairs to You. Michelle from Soap-a-Pooch.
At a murder scene? She knew these people well. All of them.
Except for the fellow standing next to a white van on the edge of the lot.
She didn’t recognize him or the van, and his whole getup sent needles down her spine. He was slick, a cagey look about him. He didn’t fit. He didn’t look delivery, and he didn’t look tourist. That was it. That’s what threw her off.
He couldn’t be a snowbird. Too early for them. Island traffic was up, but the post-hurricane season rush hadn’t started yet—not until after November 30. This guy was not here for a frolic on the beach, all alone, lounging with a boot up against the passenger door. He shifted his head from side to side like he had ants running up and down his neck.
Her arms and feet were toasting, and she would just have to take it. She clutched the pen and notebook and kept writing.
She crept over to the shade of an awning at a marina kiosk that sold short walking tours to Gull Egg Key. She stood in the shadow and studied him. He didn’t glance her way, and he didn’t talk to anyone. He observed. He smoked. She wrote it down: long brown hair pulled back, hooded eyes darting over the crowd. He wore an immaculate white t-shirt and jeans. One very smooth dude.
Not a single person in the crowd seemed to notice him.
So maybe I’m nuts.
A few people meandered off and began disappearing into their cars and back to business. But suspicion held her like an anchor, and she had no one to tell.
She was alone with him.
Would anyone think this odd? Much less, would anyone hear me out?
Duncan was still MIA. Some of the officers were trying to keep the last of the onlookers at bay. Most weren’t sticking around. Doors slammed. Officer Buck put two feet on the ground but that was as far as he got. He never looked up, and then he tucked back into the patrol car and drove away.
Her mind raced. She dropped back, and wrote furiously.
He was young, probably in his late twenties. Short, five foot eight, maybe, not more than 150 pounds. Easily, he pushed off the van with a boot, swung his arms, sinewy with muscle. A tattoo? A vine of thorns, or letters? He was wiry but his movements were graceful. Careful.
He opened the passenger door, reached in the glove box, and pulled out a pack of smokes. He tamped it against the palm of his hand, unwrapped it, and rolled the pack into a shirt sleeve after he withdrew a cigarette. He rubbed his forearm, shifted from one boot to the other, and still, he gazed at the crowd. Smoke curled from the cigarette in his fingers. He walked around the front of the van, each boot landing hard and sure.
She looked down at the scribbled mess in her notebook. You never know when a mess will come in handy.
The guy was rubbing his arm again. The tattoo of … a snake? The boots with silver buckles. The dent in the side of the van, the skull and flag on the rear window.
She needed his license number. The description alone wouldn’t get it. Who would believe her without that number? Who is going to believe me anyway?
She bent to her pages. A loud splat—the thrust of an engine—drew her attention, and she looked up just as the van roared out of the parking lot. He’d been lounging around a minute before. Now he was gone. Just like that. She sprinted from her hiding place, but she couldn’t make out the license number. Tires skidded around the curve toward the bridge. Soon all she saw was a white speck against the blue water of the bay. She tripped in her sandals and again made a mental note about her deficient wardrobe. She needed those running shoes.
She looked down at the tire marks he left. Wide bald tires and a wiggle in the sand. She wrote a few more words, thumbed through the two pages of detailed scribbling that she could barely read, and she started filling in her notes. She was disappointed that it was all she had, but baking in the sun had not been a complete bust. She had a very good description and a buzzing in her brain that said something wasn’t right about the guy and the van.
She was still flipping through the pages when she saw it. The sun glinted off the crushed shell and sand at her feet. A piece of cellophane.
She picked it up using the tips of her nails and hesitated, held it up to the light. Fresh and new. Of course, that’s all she could tell, but the thought struck: Oh, my. Fingerprints? She placed the cellophane carefully in a tissue and put it in a side pocket of her bag. She turned back to search the ground for cigarette butts. There wasn’t a single one. What? Field stripping his cigarettes and pocketing the butts? Like the military. They don’t leave a trace.
But he had dropped that cellophane. It was something. Blanche pushed the damp curls off her forehead, and wondered. It didn’t hurt to wonder.
She’d show Duncan the evidence. The thought of it made her wince. She’d have to face the gruff old police chief without the license number. If he scoffed, she’d have to go to plan B. What’s Plan A? With Duncan, it was hard to plan anything. All she had was a tiny piece of cellophane and a description. And not much else.
Bob’s Mercedes was still parked in the lot between white lines. There it sat, and the loss hit her again. The car was a large, boxy model, polished and shiny, in top shape—old-school vintage with a touch of class. One more thing that reminded her of Bob. It just wasn’t fair, and she began to miss him all over again.
Yellow police tape flapped in the breeze. Two officers chatted, their backs to her. She lifted the tape gingerly, bracing for a reprimand from at least one of them. She was, in fact, breaching a crime scene. But the cops ignored her. She peeked inside the car, and, sure enough, the coffee was in the holder. Undisturbed, with the lid on it. Bob’s tie, a blue silk with tiny fish, was on the passenger seat, bunched and wrinkled. Bob wouldn’t have been caught dead without his tie. He wouldn’t have removed it…willingly. He sometimes even wore one when he coached Little League. Why was the tie wadded up, thrown aside on the seat like that?